‘I think his heart will be fine. And, lucky for Dad, his son-in-law is a whizz of an accountant. So I’m sure if he gets himself into too much toy-buying financial trouble, you can sort him out. Did he say if he was going to pop into the store later on?’
‘He did, and he’s going to. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if your dad ends up moving here. He seems quite charmed by the place.’
‘And by his granddaughter. Mia’s got him wrapped around her little finger.’ Josie’s chest expanded with happiness.
She hadn’t been sure how to reconnect with her father. She hadn’t wanted to make him uncomfortable, or cause him to retreat further by putting pressure on him to be part of their little family. As it turned out, she’d spent hours worrying her lower lip while figuring out the best way to approach him for nothing.
While she’d been wondering how to revive their relationship, he’d been pondering the same, but years of guilt at holding her at such a distance had stopped him from making any advance, and when she’d invited him to their wedding – a sweet, small affair held on a late summer’s day on the hill where Josie and Callan had first admitted their love for each other – he’d accepted.
And returned regularly for visits ever since.
‘What are you two grinning about?’ Margo walked through the door, followed by Brendon who was holding two dripping umbrellas at arm’s length. ‘And will we see you up the hill later on? There’s a chance the clouds will break, you know.’
The teeming rain told Josie otherwise, but she wasn’t about to break Margo’s bubble, not when she and Callan were considered to be the most recent recipients of Sunnycombe’s magical Christmas sunset wishes.
As romantic as the notion was, Josie had her doubts. The legend said only three wishes could be granted, but every day that she woke up with Callan and Mia in her life, felt like a wish come true.
‘I think we’ll skip the hill this year.’ Callan’s arm circled Josie’s waist and pulled her close.
She snuggled in, loving how protective he was. How much he cared. How there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he would ever up and leave or push her away. Knowing she wouldn’t either.
He was hers as much as she was his.
‘Josie can’t go up the hill because she’ll be sick on it.’ Mia’s bright, clear voice filled the bakery. ‘Because there’s a baby in her tummy and she goes …’ Mia mimed throwing up. ‘In the morning. And at night a lot of the time, too.’
‘So much for keeping that quiet.’ Callan’s gaze went to the ceiling as he shook his head. ‘And here I was saying she could keep a secret if we explained how big a secret it was.’
Josie beckoned Mia over and picked her up. ‘You kept that secret for eight weeks. Good work, you.’ She kissed Mia’s forehead and set her down again.
Margo’s mouth opened and closed. Her smile grew wider by the second. ‘Truly? Honestly?’ She clapped her hands together, squeezed them tight, then released them and ran around the counter, her arms open wide, and swept Callan and Josie into a hug.
‘This is marvellous news. Truly stunning. I’m so happy for you both. A new baby in the village. A new grandchild for me. My little adopted family is growing. Brendon, we’re skipping the hill tonight. This is all the good news I need.’
Brendon shifted from foot to foot, his face stricken. ‘Er, no. I mean. We really should go. Just in case, you know. Tradition. And wishes. Dreams come true. And all that.’
Margo shook her head. ‘No, let’s not bother. We’ve got all the people we need looking after the pub so we should use that time to put our feet up and relax. Spend some one-on-one time together.’
‘But Margo …’ Brendon’s face had gone strangely pale. His usual high colour had vanished.
‘I need to start knitting booties. And a cardigan.’ Margo’s steepled fingers tapped against each other as she spoke. Her gaze was not in the here and now, but in a baby-filled future. ‘Maybe even pull out my sewing machine and start fashioning some toddler clothes.’
Josie clapped her hand over her mouth as Brendon rifled through his coat pocket and pulled out a black, velvet box, sunk down on one knee and held it up to Margo. His hands shaking as sweat beaded at his temples.
‘I knew you were going to make this hard, woman. Lord knows you’ve never made us all that easy. But if I don’t get to do this on the hill, where you have no choice but to say yes in front of all those people, then I’m going to say it here. Margo, my love, my everything. You’ve been the woman for me for nearly a decade. My heart is yours, and will be for all eternity, if you want it that is. Will you marry me?’ Brendon paused, his chest rising in anticipation.
‘Say. Yes. Say. Yes. Say Yes.’
The demand from the customers started quietly, tentatively, then in seconds became loud enough that Mia clapped her hands over her ears, and Josie was tempted to do the same.
‘Oh, you silly bugger.’ Margo took Brendon by the hand and pulled him up to a standing position. ‘You didn’t need an audience for me to say yes. You didn’t even need a ring.’
Brendon opened the jewellery box to reveal a radiant-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds on a gold band.
‘Can I take that last bit back?’ Margo splayed her left hand out. ‘You definitely needed a ring. And this ring is perfect. I adore it.’
‘So that’s a yes?’ Brendon slipped the ring on, then brought Margo to him.
‘It’s more than a yes. It’s a promise.’ Margo pulled Brendon two steps backwards so they were under the mistletoe. ‘Now kiss me already.’
The hoots and hollers that followed were said to be heard up and down the lane, but Josie couldn’t speak to that as her heart was too full to hear the whoops of approval or the following words from those around her congratulating her and Callan on the impending arrival, and Margo and Brendon on their engagement.
She snuggled into Callan, her hand finding its way to the tiny mound on her stomach, and wondered for the millionth time how she’d got so lucky.
How in one year she’d made real friends, like Lauren, who she saw most days, even if only for ten minutes over a quick cup of tea.
How she’d created an extended family in Margo and Brendon, and repaired her relationship with her father.
How she’d found the love of a wonderful man and got to share in the joy of raising an amazing little girl who she loved with everything she had.
Josie didn’t know if it was luck, or village legend, or simply fate. But she did know one thing …
Two things, in fact.
Hopes and dreams could come true.
And Christmas wasn’t so bad after all.
If you enjoyed The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams by Kellie Hailes, then you’ll love The Little Bookshop at Herring Cove – available now!
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Acknowledgements
The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams is dedicated to my daughter, but no dedication is large enough to express my feelings for her. Neither is an ‘acknowledgement’, to be honest. Nothing prepared me for the depth of feeling I’d have for my wee girl. The absolute adoration and, at times, the utter frustration. From very early on she surprised me with her empathy, her ability to see through the flotsam and jetsam in order to get to the truth. Without her I don’t know that I could’ve written this book, because I wouldn’t have been able to imagine what it would be like to have someone you loved so truly, so purely - despite the emotional ups and downs that such a relationship brings - ripped from your life. She is my everything. My little love. My greatest love. Daisy, I’m thankful for every second, every minute, every hour, every day – yes, even the ones where we’re grumpy at each other – that you’re in my life. Never let me go.
Of course, it would be remiss, and possibly divorcable, to not thank the man who not only helped me with said daughter’s creation, but who has supported my authorly endeavours right from day dot. Thank you, Aaron. I’m so grateful to the great Cupid in the sky for bringing u
s together. I love growing old with you. Never let me go.
Writing is a solitary thing – well, if you’re not counting the people living in your head – and it helps to have amazing author friends who support, champion, and are there for you. Jaimie Admans, Sarah Bennett, Victoria Cooke, Susan Edmunds, Susie Frame, Clementine Fraser, Lucy Knott, Steph Matuku, Belinda Missen, Ian Wilfred – you’re all amazing. I so appreciate the kind words, the ‘you’ve got this’ gifs, the retweets, shares, and all you do to support me and my books. I’m lucky to share this writing world with you.
Lastly, what’s a girl without her champion? The person who goes into bat for her. Who pulls the best out of her? A huge thank you to my amazing editor, Charlotte Mursell. You’re not just a star, you’re a shooting star – and I can’t wait to see how high you fly!
If you loved The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams, then turn the page for an exclusive extract from The Little Bookshop at Herring Cove …
Chapter 1
She just had to survive for a few more months. Six months, to be exact. Then the Christmas rush would see enough money in her bookshop’s bank account to scrape through for another year. Maybe. Hopefully.
Sophie sucked in her lower lip as she tightened her grip on the hammer’s wooden handle, slowly practising lowering the head to the nail before raising it again.
She forced herself to put aside all mental images of the spreadsheet she’d been looking at earlier that morning. It told a terrible story. Of loss. Lacklustre book sales. And looming financial disaster. She could tell herself things would get better but the numbers didn’t lie. Sales were getting worse. Year on year, even during the festive season, she’d seen a fall in profit. People weren’t buying books the way they used to, at least they weren’t buying them from her little bookshop.
She held her breath as she raised the hammer a little before bringing it down on the display case she was trying to fix.
‘Ow!’
The pained word filled the room as she pressed her lips together, dropped the hammer onto the ground, doubled over, and gripped her thumb and forefinger, hoping the pressure on them would ease the throbbing that was building second by second.
‘Are you okay there? Should I call an ambulance? Perhaps a funeral parlour?’
Sophie forced her eyes open, ready to give the owner of the bemused voice the kind of glare that would make him think twice before being cheeky to a woman in distress.
Except no glare came forth.
And her racing heart, which had only just begun to slow down to a canter, picked up once more.
Cripes. The smart-arse was a babe. Dark brown hair, shorn short at the sides with a touch more length on top, made way for a face that no doubt spelled trouble. Green eyes, dancing with good humour, twinkled down at her. Lips that were all hard-edged on the outside and plump in the middle twitched to one side. Cheekbones, sharp enough a model would be envious, were raised high.
He was laughing? At her? Well, he could take his babealiciousness and bugger off.
Taking a step back, Sophie folded her arms over her chest, lifted her chin and adopted her most professional tone. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Just a little mishap between my finger and a hammer. Now, what can I do for you? Are you after a book?’
The smirk straightened out as his eyes ceased twinkling. ‘Actually, I’m looking for Sophie Jones. Is she about?’
Sophie Jones. Her name rolled off his tongue. Smooth, sweet. With a hint of seduction. And the way he was staring at her. Penetrating. Lingering. Like he could see past her red A-line knee-length skirt and simple white T-shirt all the way into her soul, where worry and loneliness huddled together as uncomfortable bedmates.
‘That would be me. And you are?’ She raised an eyebrow and tightened her grip on herself. There was no way he knew who she was, not really. She was crazy to even consider it.
‘Alexander Fletcher.’ He offered her his hand to shake.
Manicured nails. He had manicured nails. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It matched his outfit: a tailored, form-fitting navy suit, which gave way to a lighter blue shirt, accented with a tie the same shade of the suit with a white geometric pattern running through it.
An outfit that was completely at odds with the fashion of Herring Cove, where the dress code was strictly T-shirt and shorts in summer and jeans and chunky sweaters in winter. Even the village clerk avoided suits – said they didn’t suit the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Cornish fishing village’s laid-back image.
And what was it about his name that was ringing a bell? And not the tinkly, light ding-once-for-service ring that told her when she was out back that a customer was ready to be attended to, but a clanging alarm-that-gave-you-a-migraine kind of bell.
She glanced out the window at a poster that had been taped to a pole. ‘Stand up for Herring Cove’ was emblazoned on top of a picture of a fancy hotel with a big X struck across it.
‘Fletcher. As in the resort builders.’ The words escaped before she could stop them. Before she could pretend she had no idea who he was in order to find out what exactly he wanted when she’d already made her position to the Fletcher Group crystal-clear.
‘Well now that you know who I am, then this will make the visit that much quicker.’ He flashed her a boyish grin, then picked up her abandoned hammer, squatted down beside the display stand and gave it an experimental shake that saw it wobble back and forth, in danger of complete collapse. ‘She’s seen better days.’
Sophie didn’t answer. Didn’t give him anything. She knew why he was here. What he wanted. And he wasn’t going to get it, no matter how polite he was, how nice he seemed … or how much money he was offering.
An unwanted image arose of emails with ‘Urgent – payment due’ in the subject line, and old-fashioned paper bills stamped with ‘Overdue’. The most terrifying of the lot was the council tax. If she didn’t pay that, and soon, they could force her to sell.
Not going to happen. She gritted her teeth and shoved the image into the darkest corner of her mind where it held less power. Where it couldn’t freeze her with fear, unable to make solid decisions.
She just had to figure out a way to boost sales. To change the downward trend that had come with the shrinking of Herring Cove’s population. That’s all. No big deal.
Except it was. A huge deal. Massive. The bookshop was her livelihood and the flat above was her home. The place she’d been born and raised. The living memory of her parents who’d passed away when she was five. She wouldn’t let that go. Couldn’t.
Alexander picked up the nail that had fallen to the floor, repositioned it, then with one quick movement knocked it into place. ‘Got another? We don’t want it falling apart in two seconds, do we?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘No, there’s not another.’ She felt a slight blush at the fib. ‘Besides, I didn’t ask you to help, and I don’t have the time for small talk. I’m busy.’
Alexander’s gaze roamed over the empty shop. Bare of customers. And, if Sophie were honest, a touch too bare of books.
‘Busy? Doing what? Trying to break your fingers?’
His tone was gentle, teasing, which only set Sophie further on edge.
‘I have to ready the shop for the Herring Cove Book Appreciators’ Club.’ Which consisted of two people: Natalie and Ginny. Also known as her two best friends. And, if the truth were told, not exactly massive book appreciators. So much so that they’d cancelled the meeting for that week, both citing family obligations. But Alexander didn’t need to know that. ‘The kettle needs to go on. Biscuits need to be arranged. I can’t let my customers down.’
‘Well then, I’ll help. Where’s the kettle? Out the back?’ Alexander took a step towards the doorway that led to the small storeroom and office.
Sophie shot an arm out, blocking him. ‘It is out the back but you’re not to go there. Staff only.’
‘Well I’m not leaving until we’ve had a proper chat. I understand that you declined our offer.’
/> Sophie widened her stance, squared her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest, hoping it would perform a dual purpose: as a blockade should Alexander try and head out back again and to show him that she meant business when she said no.
‘You understand right. I did decline your offer. I have no desire to sell this place.’
‘Can I ask why?’ Alexander’s head tipped to the side, a small furrow appearing between his brows as they drew together.
If she didn’t know better, if she hadn’t figured out he was one of the Fletchers – a family whose fortune was built on taking small villages and transforming them into tourist hotspots – she’d have thought he might genuinely care. Except she knew better. He was here for one reason and one reason only: to get her to sell.
‘You can ask, but I’m not going to tell you. It’s none of your business.’ Sophie inwardly cringed at the curtness of her tone. It wasn’t like her to be so sharp, but then again it wasn’t every day that a big business tried to buy your land and that surrounding you in order to build a towering monstrosity that could only be a blight to the quaint charm of the little village she called home.
‘Well if you’re not going to tell me why, then could you at least hear me out? Let me explain our vision for Herring Cove? Maybe we could take a seat over there?’ Alexander indicated to the vintage bobbled-fabric turquoise sofa.
Bathed in the summer sun, it was the perfect spot to curl up with a book. Something Sophie did regularly. A way to pass the time when the shop was quiet. Which was a lot of the time.
She breathed out low and slow. The irritation that had her shoulders hitched up towards her ears disappeared with the whoosh of expelled air. ‘If I listen, will you leave me alone? Never talk to me again?’
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